


Apollo.

by musicanova



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, I'm going to go to hell for this, Letters, M/M, OMG this is terrible don't read it, QCS hell that is, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:39:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6830086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicanova/pseuds/musicanova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sits by the window, absinthe flooding his senses.<br/>His pen is on the paper, but this time, he writes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apollo.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feuillyish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillyish/gifts).



> This is a short 600-700 word thing I wrote in the space of two hours for a practice exam. It's shitey (incredibly so, I'm afraid) and I didn't get a good mark for it, but I did promise a certain someone I would show it to her when I got it back. That's also why it's a little different to my usual writing style and "dumbed down" if you will, while also altering the characters mentioned a little to suit my time constraints. I haven't edited it from its original form as it was submitted, and I don't really have the desire to, although I know it could be better.
> 
> Some of this is so blatantly Les Mis, I wonder if the marker ever picked up I was writing about a gay ship...

He is the shining leader of the triumvirate. A sun amongst us lost, dull, scattered stars, if you must. He stands with golden locks that fall just before the shoulders, soft curls caressing his ears, and that red coat that always drapes over his shoulders, the crisp white shirt he wears beneath it. He is Apollo, your Apollo; cut from marble and cast in iron. 

 _Strong._  
_Fearless.  
_ _Courageous._

The list goes on much longer than that, but you know the words that follow, have recited them in your head countless times while you stare longingly at his back. He is nothing like you, I hope you know. You are pathetic, a coward, a loser, a waste of space. The golden leader said so himself, just yesterday. 

Unless you have changed in the time that has passed, I imagine you are much the same as I am now, here in 1832. Small, afraid and lost, but following blindly behind your leader - your sun. 

He is oblivious, have you noticed? His only love is Patria. He has no space for someone like you.

 _Liberté,_  
_Égalité,  
_ _Fraternité._

That is all he lives for. But you knew that already. You always have.

Yet you, pathetic as you are, seek to stride behind the man into darkness, never mind you have always been afraid of the dark. 

Your leader, in all his golden glory, promises light. Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, remember? (I should hope you do. If you don't, please know I'm quite disappointed in you. These words were written just sentences before.)

Now I don't know if this is the cynic in me talking, but something tells me we will not make it out of this endless tunnel.   
But maybe our fearless leader will prove us wrong. If he says even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise, then surely it must.

He is Apollo, after all, is he not? 

 

It's funny, how just after I spoke of the tunnel it only occurs to me now that you may never live to read these words. Perhaps our leader really has turned the resident cynic into a believer, in an obscure way as it is. 

What was it he said last week?

Ah, that's right.

_"You do not believe in anything."_

But for once I feel I can say that he was wrong. You can still be cynical. I know I am, but I also know I believe in something. It might not be Patria, or religion, or even a prose; however this I am sure of: I believe in him. 

 ~~I love him.  
~~ Maybe you do too. 

 

Humans are disgusting. We are all greedy creatures, with grubby hands reaching out for gold and treasures we do not deserve.

Our Apollo is one of them; one of those treasures we don't deserve. The others may try to tell you differently, but I know you better than anybody. We, as the small, dull specks in the sky that can hardly be considered stars do not compare to the blazing sun that is our leader. And this has always been the case. 

In the event that you were unsure from this tangled mess of words, this is a letter. There is no 'To you' or 'Dearest R', but nonetheless it is a letter, from you to you. I am not entirely sure why I am writing this, but per chance you, however many years in the future it is, have uncovered the truth behind my putting these words on paper.

Am I making any sense? I suppose that's for you to decide as you are reading this. I might suggest you come in with a red pen and correct all my mistakes. After all, it is 3 in the morning, and I may (or may not) have let the wine go to my brain. 

I close this letter in the confidence that you weren't too lazy to skip the entire middle section. That took effort to write, you know.

 _Regards,_  
_R._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time!
> 
>  
> 
> (I lied I said it wasn't edited but I changed the year from 2016 to 1832. I wasn't going to give the marker more clues about where the idea of my writing task really came from!)


End file.
